


Over the Edge

by Idreamofhazel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 13.17, 13.18, Canon Compliant, Depressed Sam Winchester, Gen, Meta, Supportive Castiel, but not the real thing, sam breaks down, sastiel feels, season 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 16:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14289054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idreamofhazel/pseuds/Idreamofhazel
Summary: 13.17/18 meta. Takes place sort of in between/during the episodes and is loosely based on promo pics we’ve seen. Sam’s been depressed this season. We’ve seen it in his behavior, but it’s not really being dealt with, so I’m dealing with it here.





	Over the Edge

Sam puts one foot in front of the other, each step pounding on dirt that gives way under his running shoes. The leaves are too soft to crunch, but the twigs still snap. An early fall rain has dampened the trail he usually runs and the cool air flows into his lungs with sharpness. He feels alive with every breath, awakened to the sensations in his body. The tired ache in his thighs. The sweat dripping down over his right eyebrow. His t-shirt moving or sticking on his back depending on how the air flows. He feels things he’s trying to forget like the empty ache in his heart and the sadness hanging over his head. His morning run is supposed to be a distraction, but it has the alternative effect of making Sam acutely aware of everything going on in his body and mind. It’s mindfulness or whatever new age terminology they’re using now. Sam’s done research. He knows being aware of how he’s feeling is half the battle. People go around ignorant of their body’s signals, stuffing emotions and ignoring them, hoping through positivity they will change how they feel. They’re numb. Sam isn’t. He knows what he feels. He feels it deeply. He acknowledges it every day of his life. He doesn’t need mindfulness. 

His runs are less and less frequent these past weeks. Instead he falls asleep at tables after hours of research and wakes up well past breakfast time. Or he lays in bed until Dean checks to see if he’s still alive. Work is catching up to him, but he tells himself he’ll get back on schedule soon. Soon isn’t today. He lays in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling and feeling useless. Dean won’t come to get him up. Dean won’t be back for hours. Sam knows he should get up and run. Somewhere deep inside he has desire to run, but there’s a weight on his chest that’s pushing desires like that down into the depths where he can’t reach them. He only feels them vaguely like a nagging reminder he’s failing at being alive. He’s not doing anything useful while so many things are left unfinished. Being useful is what he’s good at. It gets him through everything, but it isn’t working how it used to and Sam can’t force himself out of this mood no matter how hard he tries. 

Somehow his mind connects to his body. The brain signals telling his muscles to move finally work and he pops out of bed. He stretches, feeling the pull of the muscles in his belly and his arms as his hands reach to the ceiling. He feels the dull ache of tensed muscles in his back as he touches his toes. He needs to clean the library. The mess is his; he can’t blame Dean. Books, files, loose pages, pens, and odd objects like a vile of djinn blood are littered over two tables in the library. He shuffles in, stands at the end of a table and puts his hands on his hips and sighs. Tackling this mess is what he needs, to put everything back in order and keep it in order. He’ll feel better once each item is stacked and in its place. He’s had too many distractions lately--doing jobs for the Mafia, chasing Lucifer around, getting sucked into alternate realities. He can’t afford anymore. The breakthroughs have been good. Gabriel is the most important key to unlock the alternate universe and he fell into their laps without warning or effort. Sam should be happier about having Gabriel, but he only sees the mess. 

It’s stress inducing. It reminds Sam of everything out of place in his life. Picking up each item and setting it on a shelf or in a drawer should be therapeutic, each book and piece of paper a symbol for something in his life he’s taking control of. The process does nothing of the sort. It only reminds him of each thing that’s wrong and why it’s wrong and why it’s probably his fault. Sam is good at pushing through unpleasant things. He still gets through a large portion of it before Castiel comes into the library with a solemn look on his face. Castiel has been trying to communicate with Gabriel, but by the looks of it, he hasn’t been successful. Sam braces himself for the update and follows Castiel to Gabriel, entering the small bedroom where Gabriel sits. 

Sam is not prepared for what he sees. Black symbols of an alien language cover every inch of the walls. Gabriel sits on the bed, staring at the letters with no recognition in his eyes. His lips are moving but no sound comes from them. 

“I can’t get him to talk,” Castiel says, “I’ve tried English, Enochian, angel radio, but there’s nothing. His mind is blank. And I don’t know how to fix him.” 

Sam doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He stares at Gabriel, runs a hand over his mouth. The letters on the walls feel like they’re dancing and moving closer, closing him in. He closes his eyes.

“I’ll keep trying,” Castiel adds.

Sam can feel Castiel’s eyes on him. The stare bores into the side of his face and his throat tightens. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have something more.”

Sam opens his eyes. “No, Cas, it’s not your fault. I- I need a minute.”

Sam turns around and exits the room. He walks briskly down a hall unaware of where he’s going. He has no destination. The feeling of needing air and something to hold himself together pushes his legs through the bunker. He’s unraveling with each step he takes. 

His vision is white hot and black, spots of anger and tears floating over his eyes blocking his view. His chest is about to burst. He’s losing control. Before he collapses into a heap of chaos on the floor, he opens a door and punches the nearest object with all the force he can muster. He lets out a guttural growl, punching again and again until he’s out of breath and his knees give way. He slides to the floor, knuckles bruised, and hangs his head between his knees, taking in a shaky breath. With the exhale comes tears, hot and streaming down his cheeks, dripping onto the floor. He’s crying so hard he can’t keep his eyes open. The tears are a catch-22, a release that makes him remember and experience all over again. His mom. Castiel. Jack. Eileen. Lucifer. Torture. Betrayal. Possession. Loss. Death. The pain he feels inside is too great. It’s everything he’s tried to hold back and everything he’s told himself he’s dealt with, but he can’t stop crying.

He hates crying. It’s unpredictable. He remembers when he was young, he would cry to Dean all the time. He would cry when the monsters were in his closet or the real ones felt too close. He would cry when he missed a mother he never had and he would cry when the cereal was all gone and he knew somehow in that toddler brain of his, there wouldn’t be any more food until dad came back. But somewhere through the years, he lost the ability to cry freely. He became comatose, frozen in a precarious balancing act, juggling every emotion and every thought with precision rivaling an obsessive personality. If he lets go, lets everything fall and crash and have its way, bad things will happen. He can’t cry. He can’t let himself go. He can’t lose control. 

He really wants to stop. He wants to keep forgetting about the pain and not talking about it because it's easier to rationalize and intellectualize it in his brain than it is to explain it to someone else. It’s easier to tell himself he has it together than to show everyone he doesn’t. It’s hard to put himself back together.

He feels the pain in his knuckles now, dull and slowly becoming sharp. He opens his eyes to look at the damage. They’re red and bruised, but not bleeding. His nose is running. He sniffs and swipes his hand underneath his nose. He doesn’t know why he broke down now. Why is Gabriel the push that sent him over the edge? Why wasn’t it Lucifer? Or Eileen? 

He hears footsteps outside the door. Before he can get up, Castiel opens the door and sees Sam in the pathetic state he’s in, broken on the floor. 

Castiel looks over briefly at whatever object Sam punched and then looks back to Sam. Sam expects to find judgment or anger or even pity on Castiel’s face, but instead he sees understanding.

Sam feels exposed. He wants to hide his red puffy eyes and his bruised hands. He wants to brush off this interaction with an “I’m fine,” but he can’t avoid confronting the reality that is him on the floor, unraveled and weak, the evidence of his outburst on his knuckles. He can’t brush off this out-of-character behavior. He waits for Castiel to say something. 

Castiel walks over to Sam, crouches down beside him, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“When we’ve bottled things up for too long, the most irrelevant things can send us over the edge.”

The muscle movements in Sam’s face are almost too small to detect, but his face falls with resignation. He can’t hide the truth of Castiel’s statement or file it away under Things He Already Knows. He thought he was doing a good job. He thought he knew how to handle his emotions, but Castiel was undeniably, painfully right. Sam doesn’t deal with his feelings because he never allows himself to feel them. He can’t even explain them. 

Castiel reads the look on Sam’s face and says nothing else. He holds his hand out instead. Sam takes the offer of help, hoisting himself up. Castiel pulls Sam into a hug, Castiel holding all of Sam up, Sam letting himself lean on someone besides himself. Sam feels real release now with the arms of a brother around him. His chest is lighter. He can breathe. Everything isn’t fixed, but he feels better. He’s been pulled back from over the edge, and he knows he couldn’t have done it alone.


End file.
